What Happens To You When Your Address Is 221B
by Spockologist
Summary: My take on KCS' 221b challenge. NO SLASH!
1. Bear

**Hi everyone! This is my take on KCS' 221b challenge. I've never posted things as I write them, I normally just wait until its finished, so I will try to post at regular intervals. I hope everyone's in character and that you enjoy it! **

I have experienced many things. As a medical doctor, one sees the horrors of mortality magnified to an almost insufferable degree. The cases I assist Holmes with have their own share of miserable qualities; the violent deaths of many human lives and twisted minds of their assailants are enough to send one reeling into a dismal state of hopeless for the wellbeing of humanity.

But these things are….tolerable. Loved ones are reunited in the afterlife, justice receives her criminal and the ebbing of time slowly erases even the most dreadful of memories.

Long after leaving Afghanistan, the terrors of that dry desert still haunted me. My dreams were left to ruin. Sleep was not something I welcomed, for as soon as my breathing slowed and my eyes were shut, the piercing sight of desert sun overtook the still darkness of my bedroom and left me in its unforgiving clutches. The visions of mangled bodies that once had been friends were heart wrenching. The knowledge that, I, a medical man, was unable to save them made me doubt my abilities and ponder on why I had been the one to live.

But then things changed.

Sherlock Holmes changed things for me. I was no longer the crippled doctor with no hope and no friends. And slowly, the memories became easier to bear.


	2. Boring

**Thanks to everyone that reviewed! I caught the flu last night and do not feel like writing at all, so be prepared for things to be a bit sporadic until I get better. This is the sort of situation that makes me wish Watson and Holmes were real…**

**Me: "Watson! I don't feel good!"**

**Watson: "My poor dear, would you like me to read you one of Holmes's cases?"**

**Holmes: "Oh please, Watson! She is already ill as it is. The last thing she needs is one of your romantic novels."**

I often had cause to reflect that the occupants of 221b had more to put up with than any other household in London. Holmes's sense of material organization was positively nil, his odd experiments and odd hours for violin practice were enough to drive anyone mad. His peculiar mood alterations were alarming and his lack of appetite and self regard worrisome to my medical mind. The drug use was disturbing. The wan smile on his face after the needle had struck home hit me with more force than the narcotic did to his intelligent mind. His occasional narcissistic approach was grating to my nerves. I had once called him a brain without a heart.

But there was also a different side to this. He had plunged me into more life risking adventures than I had ever experienced while serving in Afghanistan. He often reminded me of a child; having no idea about our solar system, but able to list off any number of facts on what interested him. When something touched his heart, and it often did, one saw a remarkable side to the greatest man I have ever known. What is often mistaken as lack of compassions is really the carefully guarded secret of a man who loves deeply.

While life at 221b is certainly singular, it is never boring.


	3. Bound

**Thanks to everyone that reviewed! I'm feeling a lot better today. I guess it was a good thing I got sick; I finally had time to finish reading all of Sherlock Holmes. I am happy to say I have read every Holmes story out there. Is that nerdy or what? But anyway, I wrote this last night in one of my better feeling moments, hopefully it works.**

It was the absence of telegrams that first alerted me to something wrong. No contact, no letters, not a word. I was accustomed to this as Holmes and I had drifted apart as my marriage and medical practice slowly took over my bachelor life. But it was common for him to send the occasional word that reassured me he wasn't dead to the world, sunk in some drug induced haze or depression. So I became concerned when three months passed by and I had not yet heard anything from my friend. Not even a hastily scribbled note asking me to meet him at such and such a place to go on some newfangled trail of his. I found it most unsettling and had nearly made up my mind to take up the pen myself when , with pure coincidence I ran into my old housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson one chilly fall day while out doing my rounds and in that way was informed of the reason in the lacking correspondences.

It appeared that while working on some case or other, Holmes had met his match in one of the dark waits he was so fond of and had paid the price. His case sounded most awful but I didn't wait for the rest of Mrs. Hudson's narrative, I was Baker Street bound.


	4. Basin

**I'm not sure how far from the canon this is…. But it's what I got in my head so… **

Holmes lack of sentimentality gave him a sort of inhuman deficiency of emotion. I had never seen him possess anything of personal value except for the picture on the mantle and his cherished pipe which he always kept stored in his front pocket. So it was with some surprise that I saw him unwrap an object from a box with a feeling similar to that of reverence.

"What is that?" I had inquired.

"A gift." He responded cryptically.

"What for?" I pressed.

"A man."

"Who?"

"My, Watson! Aren't you curious this morning. No one in particular." And with that, he placed the object on the table and walked away in search of whatever new thing had struck his interest.

Overcome with curiosity, I quietly crept closer and lifted the object, examining it closer. It gave no clue as to its owner or importance , but remarkable in its simple beauty. Indeed, I admired it greatly and placed it back on to the table with the same reverence which I had seen in my companion.

It wasn't until later that I learned the importance of the gift and it was from Mycroft that it came. Family had been few to Sherlock, having either rejected him, or died. The one true tie he had to his home was in that simple silver basin.


	5. Bouncy

**All I can say for this…**

**It's Friday. **

The familiar sights and sounds of carnival were pleasurable. The children skipping, hand in hand in search of adventure gave smiles to all the adults as they reminisced of what childhood's gleeful abandonment had been like.

Such gleeful abandonment was never forgotten by some.

There was a new sense at this carnival. A smell that was rather foreign. One of plastic and oxygen.

Watson was trying very hard not to appear frazzled as his detective companion was exerting himself quite ridiculously inside a peculiar plastic 'bounce house' He had tried in vain for some time to get his friend to leave the childish contraption in order to avoid a scene, but Holmes had paid him little attention.

Sighing, Watson again called out an exasperated, "Holmes!"

"Come, Watson, this is an excellent example of gravity and resistance!" Holmes face was flushed with excitement and his coattails were flying.

"No, it's not, Holmes, now please desist! You're behaving like a child!"

In answer, Holmes bounced hard, elevating himself some feet in the air, speaking in between jumps. "This will- give me- a perfect idea- of how—Jenkins- was able to- reach the windowsill!"

Watson blushed furiously as a couple of the girls in whom he had been conversing with earlier walked by giggling as they observed his predicament. "Holmes, really!"

"Watson! It's bouncy!"


	6. Breaking

**Hopefully this one is ok! I had to go somewhere in the middle of writing it and then pick it back up and it feels sort of off to me…. Tell me what you think?**

Sherlock Holmes cast another concerned glance at his companion. The ragged breathing that had filled the infinite darkness had stopped to form a disturbing silence.

"Watson?" Holmes whispered, almost dreading the answer. "Can you hear me?"

This had been his fault entirely. If only he hadn't suggested to Watson to tag along. He should have known better than to drag Watson into this. He would have been completely fine on his own, no need to bring others into this mess.

But then again… if Watson hadn't been there, the bullet that was meant for Holmes own body would have struck deathly true.

"Watson!" Holmes said the name a bit more forcefully this time, a tinge of fear unable to escape his voice.

Curse the fellow! Watson was just too loyal for his own good. Holmes would never forgive himself if this was the end. No, not for Watson, especially when they were so close. Dawn was just a few hours away. If only the sun would peak those hills and give its hope filled rays to those huddling in the darkness!

Holmes quietly shifted closer, placing a cold hand on top of his companion's barely visible form. Every nerve as fragile as the icicles that decorated the branches around them. Praying, tense and waiting for the first sign of dawn breaking.


	7. Big

**Sorry for the wait! I don't upload stories on Sundays and I had to get some things done before writing. **

… **I need to stop writing these cheesy little feeling stories. If they are getting too much for you, let me know.**

I have never fully seen the depths of my friend's nature, but have often caught glimpses of what it is fully capable of being. Living at 221B has made me learn to expect the unexpected, and for Holmes, that mantra is simply second nature. I have never seen a man so quick to draw conclusions, so sudden in decisiveness.

But it was still all new to me. I had come to expect the absurd, the shocking, and even the 'gruesome' in some instances. All these things were of a sort: hard. Steely in their outlook, roughed and immune to natural society in a way that only years of time could produce. So it was almost mind blowing to find that a deeper, more personal level was within the heart and soul of my companion's practices.

Sherlock Holmes cared about his clients. True, he was obnoxious in outward mannerisms, aloof in details and even embarrassingly rude to some people. But a part of him felt for those who came seeking his help- a reason, I think, for why he has always been so passionate in his dealings.

It was in a case of immeasurable sorrow, one of pain that I first realized that though the world's only consulting detective had a mind of incredible value; he had a heart equally as big.


	8. Back

***facepalm* I'm sorry! I won't do it again! I promise! I couldn't get this story to narrow itself down to 221 words, so it's actually 261. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!**

…**so uh, just go read and don't tell anyone that I broke a rule in the 221b challenge, ok? ;)**

Sherlock Holmes sat in silence as he watched his normally docile companion pace angrily up and down in front of the fireplace. His stalk was somewhat inhibited by the limp he carried from the war, but nevertheless daunting in its stride. Watson's cheerful face was darkened with a heavy frown and he muttered angrily, gesturing to any object that caught his eye.

Holmes had long suspected Watson to be capable of a strong temper, but had little idea of what would set him off. But after today's accident in the market place, he was somewhat surprised at its origin.

"How could they say that, Holmes?" Watson whirled suddenly, only to give an apologetic smile as he paused to hand his friend an icepack. "It was positively insulting!"

Sherlock Holmes managed a grin through his bruised features in answer. "The insulting part must have been that first fist that was thrown. That man hit like a school girl."

For a moment Watson's jovial countenance shared the joke before it was instantly clouded over and his pace resumed. "I can't believe what they said about you, or further more how calmly you handled such insults."

Good old Watson. This time his loyalty had caught the better of his reasonable self and the bruise above his eye was a well deserved badge of fidelity.

Pressing the cold compress to his head, Sherlock Holmes thought to himself that if there was one thing he had learned from this incident, it was never to insult the friends of a soldier whose first instinct was to bite back.


	9. Banter

**Holmes had to have teased Watson just a**_** little**_** bit, right?**

"Watson, where are you off to this evening?" My friend addressed me, lighting his pipe and giving me a sardonic grin. "Not leaving me again, are you?"

He had been in this mood all day. A case had finally satisfied his energetic brain and he was feeling the after effects of euphoria. Such dispositions were always interesting with him. He would either be jovial in mind or gloomy beyond any hope of repairing. Today was a cheerful mood for him and I had endured his witty comments with some amusement.

"I wouldn't think of it." I responded, still putting on my coat. "I was simply stepping out for awhile."

"Right, right." Holmes winked at me, rising from his chair. "Let me fetch my coat."

My face fell and I was unable to hide my disappointment as my version of 'stepping out' involved a meeting with Miss Morstan.

Holmes caught the look and fell back in his chair, laughing. I was starting to wonder if alcohol or cocaine was influencing his euphoria and if leaving him alone would be such a wise decision, but he waved me off.

"Go and have your fun." He smiled. "But be careful 'stepping out', I've heard the roads are quite slippery."

Rolling my eyes, I entered the snowy streets of London, laughing over Holmes's playful banter.


	10. Backwards

**Sorry, guys! I went over again. (299) I'm not really sure what to say about this story…. Blame it on the fact that it is almost the weekend and I obviously have some obsession with Holmes and Watson in odd situations.**

After figuring out how the peculiar light fixtures worked, Holmes turned his investigations to the kitchen. The room contained a very large ice box which Holmes rummaged through, examining its contents.

Smirking and holding up a can he turned to me, "Look, Watson. They use '_real_ cream'."

"As opposed to fake cream?" I asked, frowning in puzzlement.

Holmes shrugged, putting the container back in search of something even more bizarre. "Perhaps their food is chemically generated. This is the future after all."

I nodded, after everything else we had discovered in this small flat, that seemed like the most logical assumption.

Next to be examined was the small box placed on the counter. The buttons beeped obnoxiously when pressed, but a small light flicked on inside the contraption and a rather pleasant humming sound was emitted.

"What is it?" I asked.

Holmes frowned, "I am not sure… it gives heat. Maybe a sort of warming drawer? Let's test it. Hand me those odd things over there, will you?"

Handing him the package, I caught the label on the bag, "Marshmallows". Surely those were not fit for consumption, they looked absolutely nauseating.

Placing one of the 'marshmallows' inside the box, Holmes pressed the 'start' button and pressed his face close to the clear screen to see the results.

I had done just the opposite and stood well away from Holmes and his experiment, I knew how this was likely to end.

"Watson! Watson! It's expanding!" Holmes's voice was nearly frantic. "Make it stop!"

But his cry came too late.

The smell of something burning filled the room and a faint flicker of flame was the only sign of life left from the poor marshmallow.

Coughing, Holmes muttered something of disgust and I seconded the sentiment. The future was positively backwards.


	11. Buried

**Hi, Everyone! This fic makes me think of Berede's picture over on deviantart. The one titled: "Doctor's Wives Die Young" You should check it out!**

The man's form silhouetted in the snow storm was barely a form at all. So thin and fragile, as if the slightest gust of wind that swirled the snowflakes would brush him away as well. He had been standing there for hours; the cold weather was nothing compared to what his heart felt inside.

It was the one year anniversary today.

One year of loneliness; of heart break. That same desperate fear of being useless returning.

He'd lost everything in that one year.

His wife's death had been heart wrenching. He, a medical man, unable to do anything as he watched his beloved's life slowly drain away. It might have been easier if he had had someone to bear it with.

But he had lost a friend as well.

That day at Reichenbach falls was still fresh in his mind. The roaring of the falls, the muddied footprints, his voice echoing back to him as he called out in hope of answer.

While life moved rapidly around him, it seemed his had slowed. An unbearable pace that left one plenty of time for reflection and no chance for action. What could a crippled doctor contribute to society?

Such were the thoughts of that man standing alone in the snowy cemetery, wishing with all his heart that he was the one buried.


	12. Base

**Mleh..I don't know what this is. I had to go shopping today and my brain feels like it's been run over by a train.**

"Well, this is it, old chap." Holmes held out his hand with mock solemnity.

I shook it with the same gracious air as my companion, and we both turned to look up at the window ledge that was out goal.

There inside the room was the result of weeks of searching. London's most violent criminal lay hiding with unflinching coldness in his eyes.

He was a rum one, this felon. His reputation was littered with violence and hate. There was no saying what he would or wouldn't try.

And now the world's only consulting detective was going to face him alone.

The ladder that we had dragged all the way from the gardener's shed was set carefully against the wall as to not alert those inside of our presence. With hushed voices and quiet directing, the stage was set for Holmes's ascent.

The few officers from Scotland yard that had accompanied us were jittery with excitement. If all went right, they would have the man that had been a plague to their restless minds and the source of London's most nefarious crimes within their grasp.

"Be careful, Holmes" I whispered as Holmes began the climb up the ladder and into the beast's mouth. He smiled gravely to me and I understood, stepping closer to the ladder so to steady its base.


	13. Bench

**Ok, sorry guys! Way over again, I'm trying! And I know I said no stories on Sunday, but I was sitting in church today and the idea would just not leave me alone. So I'm just going to put this out there and then go spend the rest of my day in peace. I hope you like it! I think this might be my favorite one.**

It was a cold, empty sort of day. One that was quickly drawing to a close in the twilight of the evening when all the shadows merged together to form a watery line between day hours and night. With winter setting in, that thin curtain of sunset was more like a knife and it was only a matter of minutes before dusk had settled in around the houses surrounding Baker street.

Sherlock Holmes quietly lit the gas lamp and settled down in his chair, a feeling of unease keeping him from relaxation.

The chair across from his was unoccupied. It was unusual for the doctor to be out so late and as petty as it seemed, Holmes was concerned for the whereabouts of his companion.

Tapping his long finger anxiously against the armrest, Holmes rose from his seat with a sigh of resignation and grabbed his hat; letting the door bang on his way out.

Walking quickly down the icy sidewalks, the sound of church bells came echoing through the fog. Holmes paused to consider, it_ was_ that time of year. The time when Watson became more somber and broody, disappearing for hours at a time only to be found half frozen in the cemetery at a plainly marked grave.

Holmes turned his feet towards the sound.

The air inside the church was warm, making Holmes's cheeks flush with colour as his eyes searched the pews and came to rest on a solitary figure sitting ramrod straight in the centre of the chapel.

Making his way to the lone figure, he sat down with a simple nod, choosing to ignore the look of surprise that filled his companions face.

"Holmes, what- what are you doing here?"

Holmes kept his eyes straight ahead. "Keeping you company. I am not much of a praying man, Watson, but it is clearly stated in the Bible to mourn with those who mourn. I am simply following that commandment."

He thought he caught a faint flicker of a smile on his friend's careworn face.

"Thank you, Holmes"

"Hush, Watson. Don't you know there's no talking in church?"

The two men shared the smile and continued to sit in silence, side by side on that simple wooden bench.


	14. Blanket

**I think this has been done before… sorry if it has, but I'm paranoid at the moment and am trying really hard not think of what I have to do tomorrow.**

It was not uncommon for Sherlock Holmes to spend the night hours in quiet contemplation rather than sleep. He would often spend the time mulling over a case, peering out at the darkened and silent street outside his window. Or when silent contemplation did not please his moods, he would play persistently on the violin. As if the more wild the notes at such a silent hour would force the thoughts from his brain.

When he had had enough of the violin, he would walk carefully and quietly around the house; checking on its occupants and locking windows. Watson called it paranoia, Holmes called it resourcefulness.

There was another reason why Holmes spent the moonlit hours alone in his chair. The nightmares were hardly tolerable and if did not close his eyes, they did not come. But his own insomnia was scarcely a thing to think about. When Watson had first moved into Baker Street, the cries that he had uttered during the midnight hour were unsettling. Holmes tried not to imagine what terrors were flickering behind those closed lids as the clock slowly chimed the unearthly hour.

So when the whimpered cries rent the air, Holmes would rise from his meditative, watchful place and tiptoe quietly into the crippled doctor's room, offering a small comfort in a frayed, woolen blanket.


	15. Breakfast

**I'm only three words over! (*Rejoices*) I could never picture Watson as much of a morning person. Maybe it's just because I'm not one and imagining my favorite character actually **_**liking **_**that ugly time of day is just too much.**

"Ah, good morning, Watson!" Holmes greeted me cheerfully, already smoking his morning pipe and looking quite pleased with himself.

I mumbled a word of acknowledgement and began to blearily pour myself a cup of tea. I had had a late night with a patient in the last stage of consumption and was feeling the worst for it.

Holmes took no notice of my sullen state and continued to talk, handing me a piece of toast. "I trust you slept well. I did not sleep much, that Davidson case kept me up, do you think we could pay a visit to- Do not touch that!"

He broke off suddenly and slapped my hand as if I was a child.

I slowly retracted my hand from the cream pitcher and stared at him wide eyed, now fully awake. "Why in heaven's name not?"

Holmes looked at me gravely. "Under no circumstances are you to move the contents of what I have placed inside the pitcher. The tarnished one is fine- poor thing died, but not the cream one."

I nodded in feigned understanding and he relaxed, once again returning to his peaceful mood.

"Oh, and Watson." He said offhandedly, "Don't be alarmed at the contents of your desk drawer. It's nothing, really."

These were the times I wished there were such things as a normal breakfast.


	16. Brake

**Oh my heck! I just can't narrow these down! **

**Perhaps I should be filing these stories under a "what never happens to Holmes" title. Oh well.**

**I was raking leaves today and kept eyeing my neighbor's bike in the driveway. I already had Holmes on the brain, and watching my neighbor kick start the bike and take off sealed the deal.**

Holmes cursed as he saw our man speed out of the driveway and off into the crowded streets. Looking around quickly, he jumped onto the modern contraption our futuristic friend had scandalously dubbed a 'crotch rocket' and fumbled with the machine until the engine started.

"Quick, Watson!" he called, revving the bike. I blinked at him. There was no way in heaven I was ever going to fold myself into that ridiculously small side car and drive down the streets of a foreign city with a man in whom I had little faith could operate the said vehicle.

"NOW, Watson!" Holmes's voice was frantic and throwing caution to the wind, I did as I was told.

We shot out of the driveway and out into the lane of traffic, automobiles honking their horns as Holmes maneuvered the motorbike between cars in order to catch up to the man we were pursuing.

"This is madness!" I cried as we narrowly avoided crashing into another vehicle.

But Holmes paid no heed and simply pushed the bike faster; tensing himself in the seat as if sheer will would encourage our already rapid pace.

"There he is!" Holmes declared triumphantly and I opened my eyes long enough to see our convict by the side of the road.

"Holmes! What are you doing?" I yelled. "We passed him!"

Holmes looked chagrined. "Well, my dear Watson, I do not know how to operate the brake." 


	17. Bringing

**It's 221 words exactly! Yay! I didn't go over! **

I rose from my chair with a sigh, giving my shaking hands a glance I tried to steady them by tightening my grip on the handle of my medical bag. It wouldn't be good for a patient to see their doctor slowly unraveling.

"I'm sorry."

Those words were so hollow. Repeated over and over again and lacking sympathy as if a simple apology would bring back the pale form that minutes before had been living.

The poor man simply nodded his thanks, if thanks they could be called in such a situation, and held his wife closer as the sobs of a grieving mother filled both our ears.

I showed myself out and trudging slowly back up the hill, pondered on what a terrible thing sickness is. I had counted twelve deaths this past month, twelve deaths too many. I mentally cursed. Three of those deaths could have been prevented, but in my own blindness, I did not see the cause of the illness until it was too late.

I quietly entered the flat and walked upstairs, looking forward to an evening of nothingness; anything to wash away the grime of day. Holmes was seated by the fire and coughed violently upon my entrance. That sound brought terror into my heart, for I knew of the haunting that sound was bringing.


	18. Bedside

**Gah… I don't know what to say for this. It's the continuation of "Bringing" but all last night all I dreamt about was writing this, and it was really weird, so I can't clear my head to get something down. Does the ending make sense to you? I wasn't sure it did, but 221 words it is, so I couldn't give more of an explanation.**

Mrs. Hudson had cause to be worried; her normally rambunctious and lively tenants had been silent for almost three days. She had seen the doctor with his peculiar limping gait heading up the stairs on occasion. His pale appearance had shocked her so badly that she had asked what was the matter. The doctor waved her off saying Mr. Holmes was feeling a bit under the weather, but Mrs. Hudson's motherly intuition told her better.

Still, men never did take kindly to a bit of womanly advice, and so she let them alone.

That had been two days ago.

Standing at the top of the stairs, she stared at the closed doorway and pondered her options. If it proved to be the silly notions of an old woman, she would feign excuse and leave quickly, if she happened to be right….

She knocked.

No one answered and she let herself in; eyes softening as she observed the condition of her tenants.

To say Mr. Holmes was a bit under the weather was an understatement. The poor man was positively flaming with fever.

But the doctor was no better. Asleep in a chair across from the sickbed, the strain had finally caught up with him, nevertheless his resolve was strong as ever and there would be no moving him from that bedside.


	19. Broth

**Gah! I went over! But this is just the concluding little bit to "Bedside" **

It was with some hesitance that I gave up my position of doctoring to the capable Mrs. Hudson who set about mothering us as if we were her own children. Normally Holmes would have resisted such treatment, but he received such a scolding about his atrocious manners, that he has henceforth been as gracious to our housekeeper as I have ever seen him.

Mrs. Hudson took my advices on doctoring with a rather superior look that reminded me that I was the patient, not her. After nearly five days of Doctor Hudson's treatments, Holmes had nearly returned to his normal self and had become as impatient as ever.

Mrs. Hudson was out to market day, having told us to both lie still, and Holmes had ignored the order the minute the front door had closed.

"Watson, I can't take it anymore!" His eyes were still glassy from fever and I found the affect it had on his already agitated frame similar to that of a mad man. "Your doctoring is tolerable, you use common medicine, but if I have to submit to the hand of another one of those witchdoctor remedies, I'll-

He dropped off his sentence quickly and resumed his languid position on the couch as the front door opened, announcing the arrival of the housekeeper.

"Watson, I swear to you," Holmes hissed, "Those soups are poison, don't consume them!"

Mrs. Hudson's unsuspecting face greeted us with a smile, tray in hand. "Now who would like some broth?"


	20. Birthday

**Uh oh… Watson's gonna get it.**

It was Mary's birthday, and as part of our celebration, we were to be dinning out.

I had not seen Holmes for some time, our relationship somewhat changed after my marriage. He devoted to his studies and I to married life. I don't believe that we were resentful of the fact, but were somewhat altered in our dispositions to one another as the situation required it.

So on this night of celebration, running for my life in some out of the way place with a madman on our heels and Holmes cursing liberally at his wounded leg was far from my mind.

But such was the situation. It had started like this. Mary and I were engaged in conversation at a cozy table and I quietly heard someone call my name.

"Watson."

Dismissing it for nothing, I turned my attention back to my spouse.

"Watson."

I looked around this time and saw a figure of a man dressed as a waiter and watching me carefully from his station.

"My dear Holmes!" I hissed, "What on earth are you doing here?"

He approached me and began speaking rapidly. "Hush, no questions. Do as you are told and meet me outside."

I rose from my chair and then glanced at my wife who had watched this with a steadying resenting glare.

"Happy Birthday."


	21. Bitterly

**I'm rather liking these little 3 pieces. So here is part two of yesterday's installment.**

It was with some apprehension that I climbed the stairs to my darkened bedroom and called softly from the doorway. "Mary,"

This probably wasn't my finest moment, I thought humbly. My spouse was likely never to speak to me again and here I was crawling up to her for help.

But it was a justified cause, I reasoned. Holmes had barely stumbled across the threshold before collapsing on the living room floor. I had managed to move him to the settee where he was sleeping peacefully in a slumber induced by pain and whiskey mixed with morphine. I would have to return with a lamp to further examine the wound.

"Mary, please." I whispered.

The form moved under the bedclothes and turned to give me a hurtful glare. If the room had been lighter, I suspect I would have seen tears mixed in with such a look. But thankfully, the moon's shadows hid the worst of the gaze.

"What is it John?"As expected the voice was tight and controlled. Biting in its remarks and obviously failing at holding compassion. I felt undeniably guilty at being the one to cause it.

"It's Holmes.." I hated to say it. I sounded so selfish. "Will you help me?"

Her eyes held mine, flashing resentment as she rose, "Anything for your friend." She said bitterly.


	22. Blood

**OK! OK! I went **_**way **_**over! But I had to fit it into one story. Do you guys want a part four? I can if you want me to, but if not, I have another idea for a different one.**

Mary silently stoked the fire and lit the gas lamp before taking a seat in an arm chair to watch as I carefully examined an unconscious Holmes. I pretended to be oblivious to her impassive gaze and worked silently, ever conscious of those piercing blue eyes watching every move.

"Will he live?" She asked finally.

I was startled by her question and raised my head, curious. I was somewhat surprised that she would show compassion to a man who was in the constant habit of whisking her husband away during dinner dates to go risk life and limb. She was eyeing the shallowly breathing figure now with a look similar to that of worry.

"Yes, he'll be fine."

She nodded and continued to gaze out into the depths of the fire. I finished tying the bandage and rose stiffly before carefully crossing in front of her line of vision. My steps broke her gaze and she spoke quietly.

"Why do you do it, John?"

"Do what?" I asked.

"Give your time to help that man, follow without protest even when he uses you, offer him friendship." She waved a hand, "Treat him without cost for his mistakes."

I sighed. "Because," I said slowly, "He's a friend. He's saved my life countless times and I would do the same for him and for you."

She met my gaze just then and gave a small smile.

"Friends?" I asked.

"Friends." She answered.

It was then that I noticed Holmes give a faint twitch. That sly devil, he better not be eavesdropping.

But Mary had not noticed the so called unconscious spy and kissed me softly and even I forgot the spying detective and kissed her back amid the scene of bandages and blood.


	23. Balderdash

**Ok, I decided not to do a fourth segment on that last story. Was that last one really bad? I didn't realize how much I missed your reviews until I only got one. (Thanks, Sparky!) And this one again, I went over. *banging head against wall* I'm sorry! I have totally been way to lenient with this whole thing. And this story requires a bit of an explanation. I was making fun of that stupid "Sexiest man alive" thing and suddenly was struck with this idea.**

The mail always held a certain appeal to Holmes. He subscribed to several newspapers and often waited impatiently for the days' correspondences to arrive in order for him to pour over their contents in hope of a case. The agony columns were a particular favorite of his and he would hardly function in the morning until he had spent a good few hours reading their cryptic messages.

Holmes regarded me languidly as I came in the front door, shuffling the papers.

"Anything of interest today, Watson?"

"No, Holmes" I answered truthfully.

"Ah, very well." He sighed and continued to stare out the window.

I sat down in my chair and continued to look through the envelopes, vaguely aware of my companion watching me.

"Are you positive?"

I gave him a look, "Yes, Holmes."

"Your countenance suggests otherwise. You are expecting a letter perhaps?"

"From the medical convention, yes."

"Not one of your countless admirers?"

I blushed slightly. The Strand stories had become rather popular.

We were silent for a few minutes with only the sound of papers shuffling to fill the spaces. It was only when I was nearing the bottom of the stack that I gave a cry of surprise.

"What is it Watson?" Holmes cried, "Is it a case?"

I wordlessly handed him the magazine.

Holmes mouth worked as he read the magazine's heading: "Hottest Man in London" and gaped at his picture staring back at him. "Oh, balderdash!"


	24. Batman

**We all know that fighting crime in Gotham city is what Holmes was **_**really**_** doing during the Hiatus. **

**I saw a picture of it on a Meme at deviantart and loved it so much; I just had to write it.**

One of Holmes' most curious traits was his ability to disguise himself; becoming hardly recognizable, even to those who knew him. He kept his costumes stashed around the house, in wardrobes, and in cupboards. The wigs were matted together to form a slightly nauseating ball of hair in the bottom of a desk drawer and the makeup and various tools he used hidden in the pantry.

So in my vain attempts to tidy up the place, I would often come across rather frightening articles of clothing. A woman's dress with a low cut neckline being one of the most disturbing.

I was in the process of cleaning one evening when I came upon an outfit that was truly remarkable. It was cape of some type of stretchy material. The fabric was black and the length of no great importance, but the most suggestive piece of interest was the bizarre head piece fashioned to the neckline of the cloak.

Were those _ears?_ Pointy, cat like ears fixed on the top of the head with a mask that covered half the face when worn.

I of course took the article I question to my companion who grew positively flustered upon its appearance.

"Oh, it's nothing, Watson." He soothed, nearly yanking the cape from me in the process. "Have you never heard of batman?" 


	25. Booth

**Tee hee hee…. I need help.**

"Watson, I don't think this is a good idea." Holmes eyed the destination with obvious distrust. "Really, Watson, I insist, it's too dangerous."

I glanced at my nervous companion and then at the obstacle at hand. Perhaps he was right. Holmes saw my wavering and jumped in to sway my opinion further.

"Don't do it! I find this to a most horrible idea. Heaven knows what could happen to you in there."

"Holmes, if it makes you feel any better, would you like to be first?" I asked.

Holmes' face turned positively white. "No, absolutely not! Stop your smirking; you know what I think of these things. Perhaps you would like to be first if you find yourself so willing?"

"It would be a most gracious sacrifice." I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"Very well," Holmes pushed me forward, still staying well away from the goal insight. "Good bye, old friend." He held out his hand and I shook it with the same grave ceremony he insisted on displaying.

"Are you sure you don't want to be first?" I asked again, "Your behavior is bordering cowardly."

"No, Watson, I would not. I have simply analyzed the dangers and have carefully placed myself out of harm's way. I will wait here for your unlikely return."

I entered the kissing booth.


	26. Bunco

**Have any of you played this stupid game? **

**And sorry, I just can't let this go by. The second sentence, with what Watson says… have any of you heard the youtube video **_**Wassup Holmes? **_

**Those of you who have will get it, those of you who haven't, go watch. Now.**

**And man, Watson is sarcastic, but I'm having a bit of a bad day and seem to solve my moods by writing weird things.**

"Watson, put down that book and come here. I need you."

I arched an eyebrow and came closer, "What's up, Holmes?"

"A game, Watson, a game is afoot." Holmes eyed me sinisterly. "A game of intellect and speed. Something so dashing, so daring, that only through years of practice can one truly call oneself a master of the art."

I slowly took a seat and eyed my companion carefully, "You mean poker?" The detective gave me a glare.

"No, Watson, not _poker. _ Besides, I beat you at that anyway. I'm talking about a real challenge."

I half rose from my chair, "I'll go get my jacks, or are we playing tiddlywinks this time?"

"Hush, Watson! You're infantile behavior is nothing less than aggravating."

I failed in removing the smirk from my face and sat with sarcastic seriousness as Holmes continued his dialogue.

"This game is serious; with serious consequences and great prizes. The winner's calculated moves of rolling those triumphant dice takes judgment and skill. Anyone can toss two stones together and call it a win, but only the true master of the game can roll those square cubes with the precision required to come off the victor." His eyes flashed and he rubbed his hands together.

"Alright, Holmes, what's the game?"

"This game, this challenge," Holmes dramatized, "Is called Bunco." 


	27. Binoculars

**Ok, just a**_** few **_**words over.**

**Just uh.. use suspension of disbelief on this one. ;)**

**And tell me none of you have ever done this.**

"I'm bored."

I sighed. This statement had been repeated with few variations for the past hour.

"I'm sorry, Holmes. It was not I who damaged the television set."

Holmes glowered. "You know as well as I do that that was an utter, complete accident."

I eyed the broken glass and the ax. "Oh, yes, a complete accident."

Holmes sighed and rose from his chair, looking out the window at the streets below. I went back to my book with a wary glance at his turned back. _ 1o, 9, 8….._

"I'm bored."

I threw down the book. "For the last time, Holmes! Go fly a kite, go solve a murder! Let me and my book alone!"

I thought I caught a faint smirk at my outburst but before it could be more accurately identified, Holmes pointed excitedly to something he had seen outside the window. "Watson! Watson! Come quickly!"

I rose, curious in spite of myself.

"Look, Watson! The neighbors, in the window there. Do you see it?"

"No…"

"The television!" he said impatiently. "The blue light in the window! I can see the screen."

"That's great, Holmes."

"Oh, hush. You would be just as put out if you were missing your favorite television show."

"Right you are." I returned to my chair, watching as Holmes danced around; thrilled at having a source of entertainment.

"Quick, Watson! Fetch me my binoculars!"


	28. Bravado

**One word over. Forgive me? **

**How many of Holmes' experiments do you think actually worked?**

"Any last wishes?"

"Send Mycroft my experiments and tell Lestrade he was a good fellow." Holmes responded. "And if this happens to make any sort of a mess, apologize to Mrs. Hudson for me."

"As a doctor, I really shouldn't be encouraging this, but my morbid curiosity seems to have the better of me today."

Holmes grinned.

"Alright then," I ordered. "Let's get this over with."

Holmes bowed and then picked up the glass containing the odiferous liquid, examining its contents with a speculative air. "You know, I am rather starting to feel like a consort to that abominable doctor Jekyll."

I laughed. "Tell me, Hyde-I mean, Holmes, does that alter your decision in any way?"

Holmes smiled before again regarding the contents of the glass, "No, Watson, I don't believe it does. This experiment could change humanity. Alter the aging process, rejuvenate old cells. It's miraculous."

"Miraculous indeed, but necessary?" I frowned. "You cannot change the laws of nature, Holmes."

"I know, I know. I shall not stretch my hand so far into the fire that it is impossible to get out. Now enough speculation," He drank the glass quickly and coughed. "Some fountain of youth. It tastes like sewer water."

I smiled, despite my worry. "How do you feel?"

"Rather like an idiot. Nothing happened."

"So much for scientific bravado." 


	29. Bald

***snicker***

"Curse my inquisitive mind!"

The outburst came quite suddenly and I jumped, glancing at the closed door from where the sound had been emitted.

"Holmes, are you alright?"

"Curse it!"

I rose from my chair and leaned against the closed door. "Come, Holmes, you don't mean that. Your mind is certainly nothing to be ungrateful for. In fact, most people would call it a blessing."

"Then curse the scientific studies in which I find myself wont to meddle!"

That gave me a pause. His experiments were certainly something to wonder at. "What is it this time? You didn't inhale sulfur again did you?"

Silence.

"Holmes?"

"You will laugh."

I sighed. I had long learned that being humiliated was something Holmes could not bear. To be made fun of was something he found intolerable and the wounded look of betrayal he wore in such instances struck deep.

"I would never laugh at you! True, I might be amused by some of your antics and there outcome, but at you, I would never, ever laugh." I spoke with earnest and he seemed to hear it in my voice.

"Not even just a little bit?"

Oh dear. This must be dreadful. Gathering my courage, I answered. "No,"

There was a slight pause and then door opened and Holmes stood glumly before me, completely bald.


	30. Blowtorch

**Ok, guys! Because you asked for it, the reason for Holmes' bald headedness. I hope it's alright, I wasn't really sure what to write and the pressure of making it as good as the last one was slightly unnerving.**

I laughed.

I had sworn not to, but the large grey eyes and hawk like nose that under most circumstances looked normal, now looked not unlike some type of fledgling bird now that Holmes' dark, disheveled hair was gone.

Nearly falling to the floor with laughter, I watched as Holmes stalked over to the fireplace and sat stiffly in his chair with not even a glance in my direction.

"Are you finished?"

Smothering any sounds of amusement that might have given me away, I nodded and did my best to look grave as I took my seat across from the great detective.

I studied him carefully to see if I could identify the cause of his sudden misfortune and noticed with surprise the faint smell of smoke rising from his clothes. It was not the comforting, homey scent of tobacco smoke, but foul.

"Are you alright?"

He gave me a quick glance before resuming his bored expression. "Perfectly fine. I will just choose more carefully what I tamper with."

I tried to think of anything in the house that would cause such black ash marks as the ones he wore across his head. There had been the time he had insisted on entering the house by way of the chimney...

"What happened?"

He sighed. "I will only say one thing:

Blowtorch."


	31. Beakers

**Gah, why do these have to be so short? I was really liking this one..**

"What do you suppose they wanted?"

I surveyed the larger than usual mess that filled the room.

"First the confrontation in the park and now this."

Holmes frowned, walking to the centre of the room after checking to see if the rest of the flat was in the same deplorable situation. "They were looking for something."

Mrs. Hudson stood watching shakily from the doorway. She had been on edge the moment we had left and our rather hassled appearances after the row in the park had only further upset her.

"They told me they were clients. I told them you were out, but they already seemed to know that." Her eyes welled up with tears. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"It's quite alright, Mrs. Hudson." He soothed. Using that tone I always found surprising. "Why don't you retire early tonight? I'm sure the doctor would agree with me."

I nodded and Mrs. Hudson gave a wan smile before turning down the stairs.

As soon as she had gone, Holmes sighed and looked around the room. "I'm sorry about your books, Watson."

I shrugged. "They're replaceable. Help me set the chairs back up?"

We were silent, working for awhile before Holmes spoke, "Looks like these were the only things not broken."

I glanced up to see a bottle of wine and two beakers.


	32. Bereaved

**Just three words over… gah. Don't worry! I'm working on a longer story for **_**Beakers. **_

"Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man I have ever known. His passion for life and his zeal for living in the moment was one of his most notable qualities." I paused my eulogy to look at my bandaged arm for a moment before speaking quietly. "But I fear this passion finally caught up to him. I almost regret being left behind in the great adventures he looks forward to in the afterlife."

I sat down in the cold chapel. The muffled coughs and blowing noises of the surprisingly large audience echoing off the stone. The old clergyman next to me stirred and I whispered quietly.

"Was that good enough?"

The clergyman turned with a mischievous smile in his gray eyes. "Perfectly executed, my dear Watson. I fear I almost shed a tear myself."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm glad you didn't. You would have ruined your face paint."

Holmes the clergyman grinned like a schoolboy. "What fun it is attending one's funeral. Such a pity I missed my first one. Tell me, what poor devil did you get for the casket?" He hid one of his peculiar barks of laughter in a reverenced cough.

I grinned a his amusement, despite its rather peculiar source. "The ransom money is inside. We will deliver it later."

"Very good. Now quit grinning, you're supposed to look bereaved." 


	33. Beard

***Slowly banging head against wall***

**Doyle must hate me.**

We were at a one of those vast shopping plazas for two reasons: the first reason, the one I find the most pressing, was that Mrs. Hudson was out visiting a sister for a fortnight and my stomach had suffered greatly in her absence. The second reason and one Holmes found life threatening was the discovery of some diabolical scheme of sorts.

After I had retrieved sustenance and was just about to bring peace to my famished frame, Holmes grabbed my arm and pushed me down behind one of the various plants located in the building.

"There he is."

I noted rather mournfully the remains of my lunch being crushed under foot by the traffic walking past us and responded rather crossly. "Who is he?"

"_Him._ That man. That liar who has the nerve to tell falsehoods to children."

I looked in the direction of Holmes gaze and my eyes widened. "Holmes!" I hissed. "That man is Father Christmas, he is not a liar."

"Yes, he is. A fraud, a fake. How dare he try to impose his falsehoods here!"

"What makes you say that?"

"I've met the real one."

"Oh really? Where?"

"At the North Pole. I journeyed there after Reichenbach."

I was trying to push away thoughts of Holmes among the penguins and almost missed his words.

"Stay here, I'm going to try and grab his beard."


	34. Brink

"You are positively infuriating!" I shouted, "Your mood swings have become unfathomably intolerable and I won't bear another minute of it!"

The great detective stared back unblinkingly, no trace of emotion giving way to my fury.

"Do you even have feelings? What you are asking me to do is unthinkable. How dare you suggest that to me, Holmes?"

My anger cooled slightly as I saw a wave of feeling wash over my companion's face.

"Do you not think, Watson," he said quietly. "That this task is just as appalling to me? A child, Watson! She is but a child and I daren't imagine what the future might bring if failure is our outcome."

We both glanced at the child asleep on the settee. It was a miracle she had not woken amid all the conflict going on around her.

"So will you do it, Watson?" Holmes glanced at me, "For her?"

I stiffened. "Holmes, you know as well as I do there are risks involved with these things! It is a complicated procedure, I don't possess the medical knowledge enough to do it."

Holmes face was wistful. "Is it because you were not able to save your own family that you hesitate? Spare me no ill will, Watson." He raised a hand as I bristled. "But think of the life before you that is heading towards the brink."


	35. Boswell

**I tried to write a sequel to the previous one, I really did. But it just wasn't working for me. **

**So how 'bout this one instead?**

The tall man pacing in front of the hospital window was thin. Whether because of nerves or simple lack of personal care one couldn't tell. His shadow's frame was elongated by the December light pouring through the frosted window. It was a nervous, fluttery pace he tread. Pausing every time a medical uniformed personnel walked past, as if hoping for some sort of news.

No one could say how long he'd been there, nor what thoughts his taunted brain could be possessing as he stalked continuously up and down the hallway.

There was another man in the hospital. One with soft hazel eyes now gently closed, much different from that of the man in the hallway whose grey orbs hadn't seen rest in days. This man was gravely injured and while nurses attended him, no friends were allowed inside to aide in the comforting. It wasn't said how long he'd live. If things got much worse, only then would family and friends be allowed in the sick room to say their final farewells and heartfelt goodbyes.

Perhaps these were the thoughts of the man by the window. His agitated pace had certainly reached a climax. There was a new determination in his tread. As if he had come to some conclusion and was determined to see it out.

For it there was one thing that was certain, it was that Sherlock Holmes could not live without his Boswell.


	36. Bail

**Aw…**

"Mr. Holmes, you're free to go."

Lestrade was smiling as he said it. Come to think of it, he'd been smiling every time he'd seen Holmes locked behind bars. The idea of the consulting detective in jail had amused the other men of Scotland Yard as well.

Holmes rose wearily and walked out of the cell and down the hall. He couldn't care less that he was free. Things would be fine if only he knew what had happened to Watson. After pushing past several nurses and entering his friend's sick room, he had been ordered to leave and at his refusal, arrested for misbehavior.

…This after several hot words and threats to the medical staff which may or may not have included shoving the dimwitted resident doctor into a tray.

"Lestrade," Holmes questioned hesitatingly, "Do you know how Watson is?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Lestrade opened the door to Scotland Yard's main office and Holmes saw Watson rising unsteadily with the use of crutches.

"Hello, old fellow." Watson grinned, a little surprised at the sudden embrace he found himself in. "My, goodness, all I did was pay your bail." 


	37. Battle

It was a searing, burning pain. One that made sleep impossible. And yet, the young medical doctor was in a state of what you could call sleep. If the troubled, twitching, drug induced coma was something you could call rest. He had been rushed in to the medical tent earlier that afternoon. Bleeding heavily and still feebly trying to rise from the stretcher as if in his weakened condition he could still do something for the poor soul he had been so desperately trying to save before the ambush.

When terse orders were given to resist treatment, the doctor's head fell back on the pillow and he cried. Unabashed tears that for a soldier were unsightly. But this man had never been the fighting type. True, he wore the uniform, carried the weapon and knew the routine, but his manner was one of a more gentle type. One that soothed and healed, not corrupted and destroyed.

After the tears were gone, the limp doctor weakly gave out instructions on how to treat the wound. The nurses smiled slightly at his instructions. Ever the doctor, he couldn't bear to let others treat something he could easily fix himself.

After the bandages, the doctor finally gave out and fell into a state of dream like exhaustion. His mind constantly echoing with the horror of battle.


	38. Broken

**Um… yeah. No idea where this came from. I don't write poetry. I was trying to decide if I wanted to post this in a separate story and still think I might do that, but for now, here it is:**

The interminable ticking of the clock, counting each moment, each breath. The lack of cases, no excitement, no purpose.

Each thunder clap and rain slashed window a mocking sign of the romance of the rain soaked midnight hour.

Nothing.

The temptation, the impulse to take the plunge into a world where all problems reached a temporary solution.

Pulling.

A pale hand, nervous fingers, reaching shakily for the case up on the mantle. Thoughts of a promise, no more, never again.

Forgotten.

Moroccan wood. Smooth and dark, gleaming in the lamplight.

The faint scent of foreign lands and chemical substance rising from its contents.

Thrill.

The needle, gleaming, sharp and menacing. The rolled up sleeve, the prickle of anticipation.

Poised.

The closing of the door, the sound of boots upon the stairs. The rush of guilt.

Regret.

The door opening, light flooding in. The temptation of the abysmal deep,

Gone.

Murmuring words, warm hands, a soft 'hello' The lighting of a fire.

Peaceful.

A sudden glance. A look of reproof.

Disappointment.

The explanation, the vehement pledge.

Suspicion.

Heated words. Stern reprimands.

Hurt.

Proof of innocence, pleaded virtue.

Evidence.

Loyalty, belief, a look into the wide grey orbs.

Trust.

Sudden change. Talk of excitement,

Case.

Subtle smile, lacing of fingers, relaxing of mind.

Satisfaction.

Impulse for celebration, strings wailing.

Violin.

The spell of languid existence,

Broken.


	39. Burden

**When all ideas fail, pull out the 'beat up Watson' card! Works every time. *wink***

It had been like any other ordinary day. If any day with Sherlock Holmes could be called ordinary. It had involved being violently awoken in the still hours of the morning with a terse order to bring my revolver and follow.

The afternoon consisted of waiting out around unsavoury places and questionable characters while Holmes whittled away at cards and drinks, under disguise and trying his hardest to draw secrets from the crowd he played.

Right as dusk was falling, a pursuit took place. The thrill of Holmes's voice, tight with excitement and the sound of feet hitting pavement giving vigor to my frame.

But then the unthinkable happened.

Moments away in capturing the man we had for weeks been pursuing, my leg gave out and I tripped, reaching out to my companion to stop my fall in the process. While detangling ourselves from the ground, our man had disappeared.

Neither of us spoke on the trudge back to Baker Street. Holmes filled with disappointment and I with bitter shame at the fact that I had let my friend down. Sitting quietly in the front room, Holmes silently lit his pipe and I nursed an aching leg, cursing still the old war injury.

Filled with harsh anger, more at myself than anything, I hit the table beside me. "Why do you continue to keep company with such a burden?"


	40. Bullet

Holmes's eyes widened, "You, a burden? Whatever would make you think such a thing?"

I didn't meet his gaze and moodily straightened the books I had disrupted when my fist had hit the table. "Never mind."

"Now, Watson," Holmes tucked his long legs under him as he took a seat. "I would hardly call something that caused you to take violent action against my encyclopedias to be easily discarded."

I glanced at him to see if he was in jest, but his grey eyes were serious.

"It's the leg wound isn't it?" Holmes persisted. "Does it trouble you? I could ask Mrs. Hudson for some brandy."

"No, Holmes, I'm fine." The last thing I wished was to be mothered further.

Holmes was silent for a moment. "The accident in the park then."

I flinched.

"Ah! There it is!" Holmes gave a wistful smile. "You know, Watson, I consider your presence to be most enlightening. It is such a pity to learn you find yourself burdensome. Honestly, that is the last word I would call you. A romantic, maybe, but certainly not oppressive." He grinned at me and I gave a weak smile back.

"But you know, Watson." Holmes lazily filled his pipe, "When it comes down to that leg injury of yours, I would gladly have been the one to have taken that bullet." 


	41. Ball

**I'd watch out Holmes, Lestrade might have a bit of a competitive streak. *wink***

"And _that _my dear Lestrade is why you should convict Mr. Thompson of murder."

Holmes smiled smugly and turned away, leaving Lestrade to finish the task.

"Brilliant reasoning." I complimented, following Holmes down the London street. "I never would have assumed Mr. Thompson of murder, he really didn't seem capable."

"Ah, yes, Watson," Holmes sighed, "You see merely personalities, if it was left to you, every criminal would be rose tinted in some form of a touching story or another."

"I beg to differ," I countered, slightly stung by his remark. "My description of Moriarty was certainly cold enough."

Holmes tilted his head in acknowledgement. "So how many does that make for us?" he tactfully asked, changing the subject.

I chose to participate in the diversion, "Tow murders solved, the Gatewood mystery completed, the missing Hathaway heirlooms reinstated and do you want to count the one involving the cat?"

"No," Holmes waved his hand, "Too trivial. So all in all," he calculated, "That makes four cases to one against Scotland Yard. I almost feel pity for them. This is hardly a competition at all."

I smiled at Holmes's lack of humility. "You're quite right. But I am looking forward to dinner at their expense."

Holmes laughed, giving me a playful slap on the back, "We are most certainly on the ball."


	42. Bar

***Snorts* Men and their egos… I swear…**

"I hate you."

I rolled my eyes. This argument had been going on for the past hour. "Holmes, I don't care. You're coming with me. You can't just agree to something and then back out of it when the mood suits you. It is hardly gracious."

Holmes glared, but grudgingly tied his cravat with slightly more force than necessary. "If I have to say congratulations, or give them any sort of petty praise, I swear I'll-

"You'll what? Holmes, really, we lost by one case. And you are hardly to blame. By the game rules, pick pocketing slipped by and it seems that Scotland Yard has been quite vigorous in locating street urchins."

Holmes sighed. "You are right, Watson, petty theft is hardly fit of my genius. We'll give them this win."

"There's a good chap."

Lestrade and his men were most pleased at our arrival and teased Holmes incessantly from the moment we took our seats.

"So tell me, Holmes," Lestrade grinned widely. "What's it like being on the other side of the fence?"

Holmes said nothing, but inquired of the waiter to make his drink a stiff one.

"Ah, Holmes can't take his own medicine can he now?" Lestrade laughed. "You'll have to talk some sense into him, doctor."

I smiled politely and nudged Holmes to say something.

"You know, Lestrade," Holmes said evenly. "The only reason you won is because we lowered the bar." 


	43. Beam

**I had been planning on a nice angsty fic for today, but after learning Hades has never seen Star Trek (yes, I'm picking on you) I wrote this one. **

**And I filled it full of obscure references so that any curiosity would be peaked so that you would have to go watch the movie to find out. **

***grins* I am feeling so evil.**

"Thank you, gentlemen, it has been a pleasure to meet you." Captain Kirk smiled and shook Holmes's and I's hands as we stood on the transporter pad. "I hope you'll come our way again."

Holmes smiled, "This experience has been most… enlightening. I was unaware the future held such intriguing possibilities." His eyes again wandered to the silent Vulcan with a look of curiosity and I smiled. It wasn't hard to believe the shared blood between the two.

The Vulcan held his hand up in his customary sign of farewell. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes, I hope you will stay out of harm's way for both our sakes. Doctor Watson," he turned to me, "Take care you do not use those medical tools unwisely. I do not see why the captain has insisted he give them to you, but as it was his order," there was a slight note of exasperation in his voice, surprising for one who claimed to have no emotion, "See to it you do not disrupt the time spectrum."

I nodded gravely, fingering the peculiar tricorder with a feeling of responsibility. Of all the thing I would miss most in this world, the advanced medical technology would be missed the most. I had learned much from the ship's doctor and envied the skills he possessed.

The crew of the U.S.S _Enterprise _smiled, well, almost all of them, as Holmes and I faded away under the transporter beam.


	44. Beating

**Look! Two in one day! **

I was alone.

I had awoken with a feeling of terror that only escalated when I realized all around me was darkness. The steady throbbing of my head my only companion and the sound of dripping water the only answer to my feeble cries.

I tried rising to my feet, but my game leg wrenched in protest and I sat huddled on the floor, my laboured breath echoing in my ears.

_Where the blazes was Holmes?_

I tried thinking back to before this black pit had engulfed me and my aching head protested the effort before spitting back the memory in an instant.

Lord Teasdale, the river, Holmes's face as Teasdale brandished the gun. Shock, disbelief. Holmes had pushed me overboard, I remembered suddenly, trying to save me from the bullet.

But how had I ended up here?

Almost in answer, footsteps sounded in a direction I pinpointed to be stairs. For some reason, the sound filled me with dread, making my flesh crawl as I tried searching for any type of a weapon.

"Holmes?" I whispered quietly, a note of fear overcoming any hope in my voice. "Is that you?"

The footsteps were getting louder, heavy and powerful. I frantically tried scooting farther into a corner as not to be seen when the door opened, but it would be in vain, surely they would hear how rapidly my heart was beating.

**TBC?**

**MWAHAHA!**


	45. Buddy

**Thank you for all the concern/threats I received on the last one! It was awesome. Here's the update, yes, the word is a bit… stretching, but I couldn't fit anything else in.**

Paying no heed to the shouts of Inspector Lestrade to wait until they'd made sure the area was secure; Sherlock Holmes raced down the stairwell and practically yanked the door off its hinges in his haste to get inside.

"Watson!"

No answer, even the light coming from the open door gave no sign as to the doctor's whereabouts.

"Watson!"

Lestrade came into the cell. Carrying a lantern and wondering why on earth the detective looked ready to fly to pieces.

In the faint glow of the lantern, Holmes made out a still form in the shadows and raced towards it, nearly pushing over the inspector in the process.

"Watson! Watson, speak to me!"

The form gasped and struggled to escape.

"Watson, it's me! What happened?"

The doctor's frantic struggles to get away paused as he turned to look up at the detective, his face a mass of bruises.

"Holmes,"

The detective's worried face tightened as he saw the senseless state of his companion.

"Watson, speak! What did they do to you?"

"I'm glad you came, Holmes." The doctor murmured, closing his eyes. "I knew you would."

Holmes shook the rapidly fading frame, "Watson, don't you dare faint on me."

"Only fainted once you know," his words were becoming slurred and his form relaxed in the detective's arms, "Thanks for coming, buddy." 

**TBC?**


	46. Blind

**Please don't hurt me.**

**I'm in a pick on Watson mood if you can't tell...**

Holmes sat quietly in the sickroom. Eyes never leaving the sleeping form in the bed that every few minutes would cry out and flinch as if under the blow of some weapon or hand. The doctors called it brain fever. After nearly being drowned in the Thames, locked in a damp cellar and then almost beaten to death, it was no wonder Watson's health had finally cracked.

Holmes smiled wistfully to himself; they spent way too much time in hospitals. It was a wonder the hospital didn't have designated rooms for the two of them. His amusement turned into a frown as he thought about just how much time they seemed to spend there. And this time, it was all his fault.

The sick patient moaned slightly, breaking Holmes's train of thought as he laid a soothing hand on his companion's arm. The flinch he received in answer to his touch only worsened his guilt.

_Oh, Watson. _

If only he could apologize for not listening to his heart tell him about Lord Teasdale's betrayal. Watson had suspected something was wrong, but Holmes had pushed it aside. Logic over instinct had proved his downfall.

The form stirred again and Holmes's eyes widened in dread as he saw the hazel eyes staring blankly around the room. Something wasn't quite right.

"Holmes?" Watson said, sounding genuinely frightened. "Are you there?"

Watson was blind.

**TBC.**


	47. Be

**My goodness! We have some devoted Watson fans. Don't worry; I'm done with hurting Watson. We can move onto emotional pain now. **

"Watson, do you want to go out for a walk? The fresh air might do us some good, and after all of Mrs. Hudson's cooking, I might have to rethink my opinion on exercise." Holmes said it jokingly, but one could sense the wary tone underneath that spoke of his hesitance.

Watson said nothing, just continued staring into the fire with sightless eyes.

"Watson?" Holmes moved in front of the fire, hoping his frame blocking the heat would draw his companion's attention. "You can't do this any longer. Work is the best method to cure melancholy and I have just the thing for us. You see, Billy down at the docks heard about…." Holmes broke off as he saw his words were falling on deaf ears.

These past two weeks had been difficult. After Watson had been officially released from the hospital, a change had come over him. He refused any sort of pampering and at the slightest suggestion of his handicap, was prone to showing the bull pup temper he was so noted for. After awhile, Holmes had tried dropping the matter. If Watson didn't want to talk about his lost eyesight, Holmes would pretend it wasn't there.

But this had gone on long enough. Holmes was beginning to think Watson was slipping back into the broken man he had been before Baker Street and he refused to let that happen.

"Watson, come." He pulled gently on the doctor's arm, but Watson swatted in the direction he sensed Holmes to be standing in.

"Let me be." 

**D'aw... Poor moody Watson.**

**Final-ish chapter to come!**


	48. Bells

**Happy Christmas Eve everyone! Tomorrow will be the conclusion to the story!**

"Watch your step there." Holmes carefully grabbed my arm and steered me away from some unseen obstacle. "The roads are icy."

Feeling remarkably stupid, I clung to my companion's arm and tried to appear as if I was not completely dependent on his guidance though truth of the matter was, I could not have found my way up the street without him. This had been going on for some time now. After the Teasdale case, I was left blind and Holmes with a guilty conscience for both my condition and Lord Teasdale's escape. I admit, I had not been the kindest of friends after my release from the hospital and it wasn't until Holmes threatened me with such an ultimatum that I was complied to forget my despondent attitude and accompany Holmes out of the house on Christmas Eve.

We had had a pleasant evening together, with a visit to the music hall, (something, I noted that I could enjoy without sight) and were now walking arm and arm through the snow filled park where the sound of ice skaters and children's laughter told me of the fun I could not see.

Part of me was resentful in the fact that I had lost my sight. An already crippled army doctor, loss of vision seemed a taunt to my already feeble existence. I could not read my favourite novels, nor dared to try my hand with the pen. My medical practice would decline, for without sight, I could not attend my patients. Adventures with Holmes would come to an end, for what use was I in tagging along behind the great detective?

But another part of me, a very small fiber of my being told me that things would be alright in the end. Perhaps it was the feeling of Christmas that filled the air, or the sound of joyous choirs singing, or even the glorious sound of the great Cathedral's wildly toning bells.*

_**I heard the bells on Christmas day, Henry**_** Wadsworth Longfellow. I really recommend listening to this song. Gets me every time.**


	49. Blurry

***Happy dance* Merry Christmas everyone! I got Granada Sherlock Holmes episodes! Everyone's invited to my house for a marathon! I hope you have a great day, here's the conclusion to the blind Watson stories.**

Christmas morning found us sitting in front a fire and laughing for the first time since the case. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to bake some of her wonderful cinnamon rolls and had given each of her tenants a gift. Though unable to see just what the hand knitted items looked like, I judged by Holmes's silence at opening the packages that the contents were truly unique.

Sentimentality had never been one of Holmes's strong points, and I had not expected a gift from him, but was pleasantly surprised when he handed me a book and mumbled something about Braille and romantic nonsense.

Smiling, I gently reached and put the book down beside my chair, bending closer to the fireplace in the process. A log smarted under the flame at that instant, popping and sending smoke and ashes in my direction. Coughing, I blinked back from the singe, eyes watering as the smoke cleared from the room.

I was vaguely aware of the sound of Holmes opening the window to let out the fumes and became conscious of a sort of blurred image filling the darkness. Blinking to see if the image stayed constant, I saw Holmes giving a worried frown in my direction.

"Watson? Are you alright?"

I was not the only one that day whose vision became unexplainably blurry.


	50. Behold

**Ah, sharing the limelight. Never an easy task.**

"I was the one who found the note, so I am the one who gets to tell Mrs. Fayne." Lestrade announced.

"Yes, but I am the one who put all the pieces together." Holmes objected.

The three of us were riding in a hansom on the way to the Fayne residence to tell them of the completion of the case, the only problem was, who would be the one to tell them.

"I'm on the official police force." Lestrade said, pulling rank on the detective who gave him a dirty scowl.

"Official police force? You?" Holmes gave one of his barks of laughter. "More like the blunder club. I'd pay five pounds to see you and your men solve the case faster than Watson and I."

I hid a smile.

We pulled up to the house and Lestrade and Holmes all but jostled each other out of the way to reach the door first. Paying them no mind, I paid the driver and followed them up the walk, whistling slightly, their bickering whispers came to an abrupt halt as the door opened and we were admitted into the house. Inspector and detective looking daggers at each other behind the maid's turned back.

We were shown into the sitting room where Mrs. Fayne rose to meet us, Holmes stepped forward to shake her hand first, but Lestrade jumped in front of him. Seeing my opportunity, I pushed them both aside and cried, "Behold!" 


	51. Balcony

…**my only excuse is I ate seven cinnamon rolls yesterday. And do you ever wonder if Holmes's Shakespeare quotes were a bit sarcastic? **

"Lestrade! Lestrade! Wherefore art thou, Lestrade?"

I suppressed a laugh at Holmes's mock attempt at acting. He had called out in a high pitched, feminine tone and the sound coming from his lips was amusing.

"Holmes," Lestrade growled, staring up at us. "Cut it out and help me up."

"Tempt not a desperate man!" Holmes cried out, sending me into another fit of laughter.

Lestrade cursed, "Holmes, I swear, if I have to arrest you for hindering a police investigation, I will."

I cut my laughter short and peered down at frowning Inspector. Holmes had climbed up first, and then helped me. Lestrade was to follow after, but for some reason, Holmes had found it the perfect opportunity to quip Shakespeare. He smiled at me, teeth flashing in the darkness before turning back to Lestrade.

"I believe it's your turn now, Inspector."

"What the blazes?"

"Go ahead, don't be shy. What's your line?

I heard Lestrade mutter something about torture and not mercy before folding his arms and staring up at us. In a voice as bored and bland as I have ever heard, he spoke. "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? Tis the east and Juliet…. dang it, Holmes! I'm not doing this. Help me up!"

"Alas," Holmes said mournfully. "Parting is such sweet sorrow." Laughing, we walked away, Lestrade calling after us,

"Get back here and help me climb the balcony!" 


	52. Bold

**The rest of the story for the case involving the cat. I can see why Holmes didn't want to include this one.**

"And_ that_, Mr. Holmes, is for ruining my walls!" The elderly woman gave Holmes one final whack with her purse before sniffing in disdain and turning away.

Holmes's face had twitched during the whole incident and he now gave into the amusement he had been withholding. Laughing, he rubbed his arm where the lady had hit him repeatedly and called out to the widow's turned back,

"You have a very strong arm, I might say."

Her reply was neither kind nor lady like thus sending Holmes into another fit of laughter.

I had watched the spectacle with some alarm, but was now being led into confusion.

"Why did that woman attack you?" I asked, puzzled.

Holmes's laugh was heard in his voice, "She asked me to help her find her cat. It was a trivial thing, but I was lacking stimulation and went to her home. The clues were obvious; she had had some construction in her home to fix a broken water pipe. The patch on the wall was just the right size and knowing cats to be curious, I myself kindly took a hammer to her freshly sealed walls and found the cat blinking back at me from the spaces in between the slats.

"She wasn't too grateful however; about her newly damaged walls and that "attack" was her idea of recompense. I don't think we need this one in the case books, Watson." Holmes said, "Sherlock Holmes great detective being assaulted by a purse clutching woman does not ring bold."


	53. Blackmail

***Giggle* **

"I'm writing a novel."

I raised my eyebrows at this declaration. "What about?"

"The injustice of friendship. A beautiful concept really."

"Holmes, if this is about me refusing to participate in that experiment of yours…"

"No, no! Not at all. I am simply writing a discussion on the pros and cons of companionship and the possible rivalries and betrayals that may ensue."

"Betrayal? What on earth are you talking about? I have in no way betrayed you! The experiment involved me jumping off London Bridge!"

"My book will also include a chapter on the rules of friendship. Favors and teamwork being the title."

I rolled my eyes, "I apologize for my inconvenient lack of cooperation."

"A chapter on forgiving the sinner will also be included. Whether to place it before or after the one on revenge, I am undecided."

"Really, Holmes! Is this absolutely necessary?"

"Necessary only in the fact that it is the only antidote to my bruised intelligence and a knife wound to my friendly relationships. Would you like me to send you a copy when it's completed? I promise all names and personality similarities not to coincidental. There is even a slight, so very small chance I hardly dare count it, possibility that one of the main character studies will be named after you."

"Holmes! This is blackmail!" 


	54. Blister

"Stop! It's too much. We must stop."

Holmes and I glanced at each other at Lestrade's breathless proclamation. Slowing our steps we watched as the Inspector sat heavily on a tree stump in the middle of the field. Despite being out of breath, I could see no reason for our pause and from Holmes's anxious manner; I could see he was eager to be on the run again.

"What's the matter, Lestrade?" I asked, as the man began to moan.

He looked perfectly healthy; there should be no reason for our stopping. And with those hounds after us…

"Lestrade, out with it!" my friend ordered.

Lestrade began to untie the laces to his right boot and I groaned in protest.

Surely not that.

Holmes had a bleeding lip from the fight in the stable yard. Miles, the gardener had the promise of a beautiful black eye and my leg was groaning in protest at our hurried flight. We could not possibly be stopping for this.

But, ever dedicated to my medical practice, I patiently asked the Inspector to state what was ailing him.

Holmes threw up his hands in exasperation. "Now is not the time to be playing nursemaid!" Pointing an accusing finger at Lestrade, he barked, "Man up! We have two murders and need to prevent a third. I refuse to be hindered by some poor Inspector's blister!" 


	55. Boys

**Happy fluff for a Happy New Year!**

"Here, let me reach it for you."

Mrs. Hudson smiled as the taller of her two tenants graciously handed her a jar from off the top shelf.

"Thank you, dear."

Holmes gave an elaborate bow before calling up the stairs, "Watson, are you ready yet? Mrs. Hudson can't wait much longer and I might die of hunger before you get here."

"Coming, Holmes." The sound of the uneven tread came down the seventeen steps as Watson appeared around the corner, the cheerful grin ever present on his face.

Mrs. Hudson busied herself around the kitchen, pulling out pans and dusting the table with flour. Holmes started to reach for the mixing bowl but she swatted him away.

"Wash your hands first."

Holmes obediently went to the sink where Watson was finishing drying his hands and looking smug.

When all were ready, the two gentlemen sat across from the kind woman and listened attentively as she told them what to do.

"No, dear, the egg shells have to be broken before you put them in. Mr. Holmes, I saw that, you'll make yourself sick on raw cookie dough and then where will Doctor Watson and I be? Mr. Holmes! Do not dust the good doctor with flour! You are getting it all over my floor."

Once the cookies were safely out of harm's way and into the oven, Mrs. Hudson smiled and wondered when her tenants had become more like her own boys.


	56. Brothers

"Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson." Inspector Lestrade removed his hat and looked around the room. "Is Mr. Holmes in today? It is most urgent."

"No, I'm afraid not." The housekeeper informed him. "He left with Doctor Watson a little over an hour ago. A good thing too, I was beginning to think he'd never let his violin alone." She smiled at the Inspector. "It is such a blessing to have those two under my roof again. I'd almost forgotten what it's like having such adventures in my life."

Lestrade thanked the woman and left before the praise of Sherlock Holmes's return became unbearable. The detective's absence had been sorely missed at Scotland Yard, but not to the point of constant lauding. Deciding to take the long route through the park, he spied two figures, arm and arm laughing heartily over some matter they were discussing. The shorter of the two was listening with rapt attention as the other one talked energetically using his hands to demonstrate the problem in their conversation.

Lestrade quickened his steps to stop the pair, but thought better of it. It had been a long time since the two had been together and he didn't want to be the one blamed for the reuniting of long lost brothers.

**That's it you guys! 56 stories for the 56 short ones in the canon. I hope you had as much fun reading them as I did writing them. I am going to miss you all terribly! I promise to be back soon, maybe in time for Holmes's birthday? If I can put something together by then. Genius should never be rushed. *grin* **

**Thanks to Hades, my new ultimate friend, Mrs. Pencil who knows lots of cool British things and Elerrina Star whose reviews always made my day. Also thanks to my anonymous reviewers. You guys rock. **


	57. Epilogue

"Well, Holmes," I shut down the computer and swiveled my chair in the direction of the detective, "It appears our fears were unnecessary. True we have come away with a few bruises and such, but none of us were seriously injured."

Holmes nodded, "And our fears of the readers coming with pitchforks and torches never became nothing more than an idea. This rookie author has most certainly done an excellent, if not unconventional, job."

I smiled, rising from my chair, "So to celebrate the author not killing us or putting us deliberately in harm's way, what do you say to a toast?"

"A wonderful idea," Holmes followed me to the wine cabinet but broke his stride as a peculiar beeping came from his coat pocket. Puzzled, Holmes extracted the source of the noise from his pocket to hold up one of those newfangled cellular phones. "What in the blazes…" he muttered. "Watson, is this yours?"

"No, Holmes." I stepped closer, "I've never seen it before, how do you suppose it got in your dressing gown pocket?"

The contraption was beeping insistently and after some trial and error, we succeeded in calming the device by opening the folder encrypted, "New message"

"What does it say, Holmes?" I asked, as I saw the detective's face go positively white. "Is it bad news?"

"She's not done with us yet," Holmes said, his expression unreadable.

"Not done? What on earth do you mean?"

"The message says," Holmes answered, trying to keep his voice level. "That the author is going to write four longer stories based off some of her smaller ones in her series. She wants her readers to review with a list of four of their favourites and whatever ones get the most votes, she will expound upon." 

"Oh, dear." I said, feeling suddenly ill. "More harm may come to us yet."


End file.
